


did you ever fall in love (did you ever dream of falling?)

by rottingflower



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Baking, But only for a bit, Christmas, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Existential Crisis, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Valentine's Day, aziraphale is so done with his demon, crowley just wants to hold aziraphale's hand dammit, no pies were harmed in the making of this fic, they are all very bad at telling each other how they feel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottingflower/pseuds/rottingflower
Summary: Crowley slides into the comfortable leather seat of the Bentley, the door falling shut behind him. The metallic thud is not enough to get him out of his stupor. He grasps the steering wheel and looks back to the bookshop, inhabiting one angel who - who justkissedademon. Kissedhim.Aziraphalekissed him.“What the fuck?” he says to himself, and it takes him a full minute to remember that he has to start the car if he wants it to go. Even then, he just stares straight ahead, mouthing ‘what the fuck’ to himself a few more times.The Bentley takes pity on him, and just drives itself home.Or:Five times Aziraphale kisses Crowley after the Armaggedidn't, and one time Crowley finally takes the hint and kisses Aziraphale back.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 185





	did you ever fall in love (did you ever dream of falling?)

**Author's Note:**

> did you ever fall in love?  
> did you ever fall in love?  
> did you ever fall in love?  
> did you ever dream of falling?
> 
> marillion // _if my heart were a ball (it would roll uphill)_

1.

The first time Aziraphale kisses Crowley, he’s not ready for it at all.

“D’you wager it’s safe, angel?” Crowley asks, leaning against the Bentley. There’s a thousand things he’d rather say, but he’s learnt his lesson when it comes to Aziraphale. It’s best not to push the angel. Aziraphale’s change is slow as molasses in January, and he doesn’t appreciate being told to move a little faster.

“Quite so,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley is reminded of a hundred other times he’s been left standing on the sidewalk, and a hundred times he was invited in, instead. 

“It’s just,” Crowley starts, and wrinkles his nose. “Can’t have you be abducted by Heaven again. They got your address, you know.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale murmurs, and moves to his side of the car. Even in the dark of night, he seems to be glowing a bit. Maybe it’s a halo above his head, or just the faint flicker of an old lamppost. 

“Just wanted to check,” Crowley says, feeling a bit like a pathetic excuse for a demon, and Aziraphale does that thing where his entire face is too soft and kind and wonderful for Crowley to believe he’s allowed to look upon it, the thing he likes to call the sun-beam-Crowley-did-something-undemonish-smile, a smile that Aziraphale has perfected over the course of six thousand years.

Aziraphale tilts his head, the smile remaining firmly on the entirety of him - not just his lips, but the crease between his brows and the silver-blue of his eyes, the delight visible in the widening of his nostrils and the hue in his cheeks, capable of lighting up the entirety of London if he so wished. Crowley looks away, awkwardly petting the Bentley.

“Even if they did come,” Aziraphale says, “there’s nothing they could do. One might say we’re officially retired! And I, for one, look forward to it. I’ll tend to my books now, but I’ve had my eye on this small Indian place for some time now. We could do lunch, if you’d like? Tomorrow, I mean?”

And the world turns, Crowley muses. The Earth revolves around the sun, birds sing their song up in the trees, people are born and people die, and an angel and a demon go out for lunch. Just as it always has been.

“Lunch,” he drawls, as if he’s ever refused Aziraphale anything. “Sure. I’ll pick you up at one.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale breathes, as if Aziraphale doesn’t _know_ that Crowley has never refused him anything, as if Crowley’s acceptance of an offer of lunch really does fall into a category of things that are wonderful. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“See you tomorrow, angel,” Crowley says, allowing his glasses to slip towards his nose so he can meet Aziraphale’s gaze. He opens up the car door, but Aziraphale’s hand on his own stops him from slipping inside. He blinks in confusion, looking up to find Aziraphale standing substantially closer to him.

“Crowley?’’ he says, and Crowley makes a questioning noise. A new smile slips on Aziraphale’s face, one that he hasn’t seen make an appearance as often. It’s a bit softer, but Crowley doesn’t have any more time to think about it as Aziraphale closes the distance and kisses him on the mouth.

“Ngk,” Crowley says as Aziraphale pulls away, and Aziraphale pats his hand and steps away.

“Don’t be late!’’ the angel calls over his shoulder as he walks away. Crowley just stands there, watching him disappear into his bookshop. The lights turn on three seconds after, and Crowley just blinks as he sees the vague silhouette of Aziraphale moving around behind the glass.

The car door is still open. Crowley slides into the comfortable leather seat of the Bentley, the door falling shut behind him. The metallic thud is not enough to get him out of his stupor. He grasps the steering wheel and looks back to the bookshop, inhabiting one angel who - who just _kissed_ a _demon_. Kissed _him_. _Aziraphale_ kissed him.

“What the fuck?” he says to himself, and it takes him a full minute to remember that he has to start the car if he wants it to go. Even then, he just stares straight ahead, mouthing ‘what the fuck’ to himself a few more times.

The Bentley takes pity on him, and just drives itself home.

~*~*~*~

2.

Crowley isn’t sure what to do about retirement.

He likes being off Hell’s paycheck. It’s not that he _minds_ being a demon, necessarily, and he’s been one long enough that any lingering resentment towards God is just out of spite and out of the principle for the being-thrown-out-of-Heaven incident. He likes being able to do whatever he wants, and that he doesn’t have to be pathetically nice to everyone, and he especially likes being able to create a little havoc in the humans’ life. It’s what he’s always liked, and he’s good at it, and that’s the reason Hell allowed him to be up here for so long in the first place.

Without Hell to send him assignments - horrid, really, the smoke in his eyes and ears and mouth, a thousand screaming voices telling him who to tempt and how to go about it, but it being horrid is rather the point - he can do whatever he pleases. He can tempt whoever he sees fit, and he even miracles some things better if a human pleases him. Not that he’d let Aziraphale know that he’s doing blessings without the angel badgering him into it.

The thing is - the tempting and the blessing, the miracles with a snap of his fingers, it’s not enough to fill up his days. He’s not doing it out of any sense of obligation, rather out of habit. For six thousand years, he’s been out doing Hell’s bidding, knowing he’d been doing it for six thousand years more if he had to. If the end of the world hadn’t come down, and then failed to happen.

And now he’s unshackled. Out to dinner with Aziraphale at least once every two days, and often more than that. Aziraphale, who’s asking him to Indian places for lunch, and asking him if he’s ever had Greek, and Aziraphale, telling him about cooking programs and telling him everything he hasn’t tried yet. And it’s not just food; Aziraphale, beaming as he holds up a rare red wine that he _knows_ Crowley will like. Aziraphale, telling him they ought to try ice skating. Aziraphale, asking him to come to a reimagination of a Shakespeare play and happily waving the tickets around.

He’s never had Aziraphale like this. Even the past years, it had been clandestine meetings and their friendship hidden under words like “thwarting”, “evil wiles”, “influences”. He’s never had _himself_ like this, unbound by Heaven and Hell for the first time in a long, long existence.

“You’re quiet,” Aziraphale says, interrupting himself in the middle of a ramble. There’s something on the TV from the ‘70s rumbling in Aziraphale’s backroom, quietly miracled into existence when Crowley had started hanging around here more often since the end that never came. 

“”M not quiet,” Crowley mumbles, and buries himself deeper in the stuffy brown sofa. Aziraphale’s staring at him now, and the thoughts in his head are only louder in the absence of the angel’s voice. “I was listening to you. Talking about that nunnery in Switzerland.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, and it’s his reprieving tone, which means he’s moved on from the nunnery in Switzerland to other subjects, and Crowley had failed to notice. It’s not really his fault that he’s contemplating his aimless existence, his untethered self, how it sometimes feels like he’s been set free from a fate he’d resigned himself to without any thought of who he _is_ without that fate.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley says, and sits up a little straighter. He almost forgot he is holding wine, and a bit of dark red liquid spills out of his glass and into his floor. He grimaces and snaps his finger, watching the stain disappear. The sofa squeaks a little bit as Aziraphale sits down next to him rather than opposite him, like they usually do.

“Maybe you need to sober up,” the angel says, and takes Crowley’s glass. He puts it on the table, the liquid finally sitting still. “You’ve never been a pensive drunk, Crowley, but today - today I can _hear_ you thinking, my dear.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are very, very blue, especially because Crowley isn’t actually wearing his glasses. They’re also a bit unfocused, but still steady enough. Aziraphale is frowning, and he’s not supposed to frown. The only reason Crowley had suggested drinking was so he could cheer himself up and have a nice evening with Aziraphale.

“No,” he says, and spreads his fingers over Aziraphale’s chest as if to stop him. He blinks, sluggishly wondering why he’d done it. Aziraphale is warm under his fingers, and very real, and impossibly leaning into him. “Being sober - s’not better, angel. I’m just. Thinking.”

“About?” Aziraphale prompts him, leaning even closer, as if he’s hearing a secret.

“Existence,” Crowley says, and lets out a noise. “Freedom. Allegiance. Loyalty.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says quietly. “All the greats, then.”

Crowley huffs out a laugh and leans back on the sofa. His fingers disappear from Aziraphale’s chest, and the relative distance leaves him a little bereft but also able to breathe easier. 

“D’you have any idea what we’re doing?” he asks, staring up at Aziraphale’s ceiling. There’s some darker spots among the white. Aziraphale’s homes have never been spotless and orderly, not in six thousand years. Everywhere the angel has been, he’s left this human mess. It’s so unlike Heaven that Crowley wonders if Aziraphale has always been unhappy, Above. Or not necessarily unhappy - discontent. Fitting in ill. Made for Earth.

“We’re drinking,” Aziraphale says, and raises his own glass, although he’d stolen Crowley’s. “We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” Crowley asks. Did he miss something? “I thought we just went out to eat. What’re we celebrating, angel?”

“Existence,” Aziraphale says easily, and there’s that mischief in his voice that Crowley loves, the tone Aziraphale takes when he forgets Heaven. “Freedom. Allegiance. Loyalty. Like we’ve been doing every day since we found our freedom, Crowley. Since we found what we are loyal to.”

“Books,” Crowley says promptly.

Aziraphale’s laughter rings in his ears. “Yes. Books, and plants, and a peculiar car. Humanity, and each other. Earth, and all life thereon.”

“You’re such an angel,” Crowley murmurs.

Aziraphale’s hand finds its way to Crowley’s knee. He sits very still, so that Aziraphale won’t move, and will keep that sturdy and familiar weight on top of one bony part of Crowley’s.

“This is not enough for you,” Aziraphale says soberly. “I know that, Crowley. You’re restless. I think I knew it before you did.”

“S’more than I ever thought I’d have,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale blinks. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive. I have my bookshop, and I have my books, and I’m comfortable looking up all the things I would’ve missed out on, if our respective head offices had had their way. I’m content, Crowley, but you’re - you are shocked. It’s a lot, adapting to a new reality.”

“Not for you,” Crowley says. “And you’ve never adapted well.”

Why is Aziraphale always so soft, his smile always so kind? It’s like he knows something that Crowley doesn’t, like he’s waiting for him to catch up. It’s unnerving, and Crowley wishes he could hold his glass of wine again only so he could look away.

“To some things better than others,” Aziraphale admits, and turns his head enough to look at the TV that’s still running in the background. A laugh track plays as one of the main characters makes some sort of joke, but it might as well have been silent as the day before God created sound for all the attention Crowley pays to it. “But at the end of the day, I’m still here. Maybe you’ve been running so hard for so long that it’s inevitable that you’re stumbling now. Because you don’t really know where you’re running towards.”

 _You_ , Crowley wants to say, _somehow I’ve always been running towards you_ , but while they’re nicely inebriated, they’re not that drunk yet. The answer lies on his tongue, however, kept in check by his lips.

“You and your metaphors,” he grumbles instead. 

“What you need,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully, “is a hobby. Something that will keep your thoughts at bay. Something that doesn’t have to do with either Heaven or Hell, but with you.”

Everything that Crowley is has had to do with either Heaven or Hell. Being an angel had shaped his identity once, and then Falling had. Rebelling against Hell had been - him, maybe, since no other demon has felt the need for it. But even that is more a statement than it’s actually something he likes doing - it’s not like rebelling is a _hobby_. And what does he have to rebel against, anyway?

“A hobby,” Crowley repeats, trying on the words, seeing if they fit him. “Like - what. _Knitting_?”

“If you wanted,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sure you’d be very good at it.”

“Good at it,” Crowley breathes. Lets it rankle around in his head. A hobby. A thing in his life that doesn’t involve Heaven or Hell. A thing in his life that doesn’t involve Aziraphale, which most things seem to do these days, or sitting around his apartment all day, hissing at the plants.

“You should sleep on it. See what you want to do. There’s an endless number of do-it-yourself books, Crowley, I’m sure there’s something in there that you’ll find to your liking.”

He seems so sincere. Crowley doesn’t understand why he can’t be content, now that he finally has everything he never thought he could even want. Everything that he thought he’d never be allowed to have, when he’d been first cast out, on all fours in a burning plane of existence and tasting ash on his tongue. Now there’s wine staining his lips, and an angel stares at him like he’s meant to be sitting here on this sofa.

“Drinking wine,” he just says, and sits up to finally pluck up his discarded glass again. It’s full when he picks it up, even if it decidedly hadn’t been when Aziraphale had taken it from him.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, pursing his lips. “I’m sure that’s not a hobby, but rather alcoholism.”

Crowley grins, now that they’re back on a familiar playing field. “We all have our vices,” he says, pointedly taking a sip as he stares at Aziraphale’s own glass. Aziraphale just looks back at him, and then leans in to take Crowley’s chin.

He kisses him, and Crowley almost drops his glass.

It’s only a second, and then Aziraphale pulls away. His lips are still red, the colour of wine, and his fingers are still on Crowley’s forearm. The tip of his ring finger twitches, and Crowley can feel his skin responding, his hair standing upright.

“Yes, we do,” Aziraphale just says, and stands up. “More wine, dear?”

Maybe Crowley hadn’t dropped his glass, but the content certainly has tipped on the floor again, and he curses, miracling it away. When he looks up, Aziraphale just pours him another glass and leans back.

He doesn’t touch him the rest of the evening, and Crowley steers away all conversation from anything to do with existentialism, vices, or romance.

~*~*~*~

3\. 

Christmas Eve rolls around. 

Crowley is not the type to get a tree and decorate it. He knows that Aziraphale does, every year. Aziraphale _loves_ Christmas, despite the consumerism, despite the advertisements, despite religion quickly having become a subtone instead of the _point_. Aziraphale loves the merriness and the happiness, loves the gift-giving, loves the lights and the hot chocolate and the busy streets.

Crowley once got a commendation for how commercial Christmas had become. He loathes the thought now, looking at the lit-up streets in Mayfair. Aziraphale would love it, he knows, and resolves to take him here to see it. Walk the streets with him.

For all intents and purposes, they’ve never spent Christmas together. Crowley isn’t sure whether they are supposed to, now.

They still go out for dinner. Crowley has driven them out of London for Aziraphale’s choice of restaurant, once or twice. Aziraphale’s wide-eyed terror in the passenger’s seat doesn’t stop either of them from poking at the boundaries of the newfound freedom. It’s stretching out of Soho and Mayfair, into the wide world. Crowley is still waiting for it to fall apart, and sometimes he thinks that Aziraphale is, too.

Crowley also still passes out on Aziraphale’s sofa. The crappy TV has not been upgraded yet, but Crowley has been nagging enough so that he thinks Aziraphale might give in and get a newer model in a year or two. With a bit of luck, he’ll allow Crowley to drag him into an electronics store.

Nothing has really changed. Aziraphale goes out to other booksellers and to libraries, much as he’s always done. He still smiles knowingly, and the ever-present anxiety that bubbles under his skin seems to be gone, most of the time, so that is new. It’s good, though, and Crowley doesn’t think he knew how tense the angel used to be until he’d seen it disappear, day by day.

As for Crowley -

This pie isn’t baking _itself_ , is it now? Or burning itself, either.

He curses as his kitchen is rolled into black and grey steam. A second attempt gone down the drain, he decides. His black-and-red oven mitts aren’t really necessary to get it out of the oven, but Crowley does things the _human_ way now, and just because he can’t be burnt by any kind of fire doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t use mitts.

Besides, they’re soft and comfortable and make him feel like he’s actually baking.

Not that he’s any good at it. The pie almost stares accusingly at him, and Crowley growls. The fire alarm goes off, and he snaps his fingers. Blissful silence.

“You,” he says threateningly, “are not a worthy Christmas dessert.”

Maybe he shouldn’t try pies. It’s not the first hobby he’s tried, ever since Aziraphale brought it up, and baking is - well, it’s something to do. It takes time, which is the main thing, and there’s a lot of things he can do with it. Some things work out better than others, but he’d somewhat hoped to surprise Aziraphale with a home-made pie.

He glances at the clock. He’s agreed to meet with Aziraphale around six, and it’s now two in the afternoon. He has time for a second attempt, but he’ll have to skip out on his Very Important Plans of napping before. 

A sigh. If he wants to surprise Aziraphale, he’s going to have to try again. He puts on his apron, throws the pie in the garbage - he could miracle it away, but this is far more _satisfying_ \- and gets started. Again.

~*~*~*~

Aziraphale’s shop is alight with both electrical lights and the incandescent buzz of an angel who’s loving the season. Crowley suddenly feels off, hesitation slowing his steps, although not fully halting them. He has a pie in one hand and a wrapped wine bottle for Aziraphale stuffed underneath his other arm, the red-and-gold Christmas paper not doing a single thing to hide what is in there.

Is he spending the day here, tomorrow? Will Aziraphale even want to have him over for Christmas, or is he going to send Crowley back home? They haven’t _talked_ about it, apart from setting this meeting, and Crowley didn’t know how to bring it up.

Hundreds of years have passed without them talking, in the past. It had just been the way it was, and Crowley hadn’t really missed Aziraphale for them. Sure, sometimes he’d wanted someone who understood, and he’d always enjoyed Aziraphale’s company. Now - he’s not sure what the situation is. Afraid to be apart from Aziraphale, afraid to be there too often. Uncertain of Aziraphale’s own opinion on the matter, and afraid to ask.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, and opens the door for him. He beams, his smile easy and glowing the way it always does when he sees Crowley, and Crowley relaxes minutely.

“Hey, angel,” he drawls, as if he wasn’t hesitating on the angel’s threshold, and steps inside the bookshop. It smells like parchment and Aziraphale, like it always does, but there’s also a hint of greenery and the smell of pine. Unsurprisingly, considering the large Christmas tree in the middle of the room. 

Crowley stops in his tracks, looking at it. It’s decorated in lights and red and green baubles of all kinds. Little wooden sleighs hang between the green, and small Santa Claus figures, and golden and white Christmas baubles. A glowing Christmas peak stands proudly on the top of the tree.

“It’s not too much, do you think?” Aziraphale asks, wringing his hands as he stands next to Crowley. “I’ve always had a tree up during Yule, but I’ve never celebrated with _you_. Didn’t think it’d be - well, _wise_ , to spend the holidays together, before. Maybe I went a bit overboard, but it’s so much more enjoyable to spend Christmas with company.”

There’s still a smile on Aziraphale’s face, but it’s less the easy and bright smile of before, and more the kind of smile he used to wear when either of them had brought up something Heaven had done that seemed rather questionable to both of them (even if only one of them ever really did ask the questions), anxious and uncertain, and less the smile he flashes when Crowley does something nice for him.

So the solution is obvious, of course. Crowley has something nice for the angel, even if said angel doesn’t know it yet. He miracles away the wrapped wine to where Aziraphale keeps the rest of his wine - they’ll stumble on it later tonight, to be sure. In the meanwhile, he has something else for him.

“Here,” he says brusquely as he almost throws the pie in Aziraphale’s hands, because even if his angel inspires him to sudden bursts of kindness from time to time, it doesn’t mean he has to pretend to actually _be_ nice.

“What’s this, then?” Aziraphale asks, and opens up the white box to peer inside. “Oh! My dear, you really didn’t have to. Is that - _pear_? Oh, that does smell delicious.”

“Pear and caramel,” Crowley says. “Seems like a devilish combination. Didn’t think the video-man had it right when he said it, but turned out rather well, I thought.”

Aziraphale’s face does this complicated thing. It’s not the sun-beam-Crowley-did-something-undemonish-smile. It’s close, but with more surprise. The first smile always holds a hint of I-knew-he-isn’t-totally-evil, which Crowley resents anyway, but at least Aziraphale knows him well enough not to say it out loud, most of the time. There is a widening of the eyes, a flaring of the nostrils, that does not belong to any of his smiles. Crowley has spent six thousand years cataloguing them, so he would know.

What he doesn’t know is what a deviance from the norm means.

“Crowley -” Aziraphale starts, holding the pie like he is holding a part of heaven.

“If you don’t like it, we can,” Crowley says quickly, suddenly not wanting to hear what the angel has to say, “I don’t know. Throw it out. Gift it to the poor. That seems like a you-thing to do. ‘s Properly demonic, too, gifting mediocre pie with contrasting flavours to those already trodden down.”

“Don’t like it?” Aziraphale breathes. “You gave me _homemade_ pie. Homemade! I thought you’d picked it up! Oh, Crowley, I don’t think you’ve ever given me anything _homemade_.”

“Does it make a difference?” Crowley asks, peering at the pie. “Besides the fact that it’s going to taste like rubbish or worse?”

Aziraphale offers him a long-suffering glance. “My dear boy,” he says. “It smells absolutely scrumptious. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it, especially knowing that you made it yourself. Is this a new hobby, then? I thought you were still creating a herb garden.”

“I am,” Crowley says, and follows the angel to the backroom. “Just didn’t know what to do with the herbs. So I guess cooking was a natural thing to follow. And then the baking happened. Didn’t really _mean_ for it to happen.”

Aziraphale, of course, decorated the backroom as well. There’s a smaller Christmas tree in the corner of the room, less decorated with baubles but still bathed in light. Crowley smiles wryly at the sight of it.

“Well, I’d be delighted to see what you come up with,” Aziraphale says, and he really does sound delighted. 

“Don’t get your hopes up, angel,” Crowley says, and feels surprisingly flustered when Aziraphale gently puts down the pie in the middle of the table and comes back up to grab his sleeve. “You haven’t even tasted any of it yet.”

“I daresay I don’t think that’ll matter,” Aziraphale says cheerfully. “You’ll only improve, my dear boy. Now, I see we’ve rather found ourselves under some of the mistletoe.”

Before Crowley knows it, Aziraphale is in his space again. This time, he’s slower about it, but even so, Crowley doesn’t really see it coming out of sheer unbelievability. Aziraphale’s lips against his are soft and inviting and warm, and he can feel Aziraphale’s hand curling around his bicep, the other one settling on his shoulder, reeling him in. Aziraphale’s nose gently bumps into his, and Crowley’s breath is taken away.

Then Aziraphale pulls away, smiling. He's been doing that an awful lot, lately, and Crowley only realizes his own hand is firmly settled on Aziraphale’s waist when it starts sliding off.

“You put up,” he starts, and looks up, “mistletoe. Mistletoe?”

“It is very traditional,” Aziraphale says, bobbing his head with every syllable as if he’s affirming something that Crowley said. As if he didn’t just _kiss_ Crowley. Again! “I couldn’t exclude it from my decorations, naturally. I even got the tiny wooden angels! So delightful. Did you see them, Crowley? I asked the shopkeepers if they had wooden demons, but she looked at me rather oddly - I suppose I can understand why, but wouldn’t it have been absolutely spiffing to have two little wooden versions of ourselves in the Christmas tree? Crowley? My dear, are you alright?”

Crowley startles, realises he’s been staring instead of answering, and just nods. “Yeah,” he says, and looks over to the small tree. There’s indeed a small wooden angel hanging on one of the branches, kept in the tree by a golden cord. The angel has a small smile on its face, its curls painted in gold and its cloth and wings painted white. It holds a tiny Bible in its hand, and it _radiates_ Aziraphale. There’s another angel next to it, painted equally so but holding a dove instead.

He snaps his fingers before he knows it, and the second little angel turns into a small demon. Hair painted red and cloth all in black, with the halo disappearing and a tiny tail conjured up instead. The dove remains, though, white as ever. Crowley can’t make himself turn it black.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale says in earnest delight, and takes his hand, almost forcing him to sit down with him. His hand is warm and steady, keeping him roughly in place. “Now - I know we have plenty of time during the holiday, but I admit I can’t wait to try your pie. Can I have a piece now, and then we’ll eat the rest of it tomorrow?” 

Tomorrow. So he really does mean to spend all of Christmas with a demon. Crowley is helpless in the face of his eagerness, the visible happiness with which Aziraphale regards him, and his pie, and the tiny wooden angel and demon hanging together in the tree, impossibly swaying closer towards each other despite the fact the tree is standing absolutely still.

“Of course, angel,” Crowley says, and squeezes Aziraphale’s hand before he lets go. He’s not sure what is happening, but he can’t push his luck. “Whatever you like.”

And then they spend Christmas together, as if it is what they’ve always done.

~*~*~*~

_An interlude -_

Crowley isn’t an idiot.

A little bit of one, maybe, but that’s by choice. That’s because some things in life are easier if you don’t look directly at them, like - like the sun. Except Crowley always wears sunglasses, so he can definitely look at the sun. That is not the point, however, because the point is that there are things that you can get away with if you don’t name them. If you keep them just out of your view, aware that they’re there but never directly acknowledging it. If you steer your thoughts away from a certain direction that might lead you down a path that is, in the end, not beneficial to anyone.

But since Crowley isn’t _that_ much of a blithering moron, he knows he’s in love with Aziraphale. It’s a given, considering how much of his motivation around the angel is, and always has been, more along the lines of ‘I want him to smile’ and ‘how soft would his curls feel against my fingers’ and less ‘die, stupid angel, die’. Aziraphale is his best friend and the best part of being on Earth, and Crowley would have to be especially idiotic not to have realized how he felt when he looked at Aziraphale, that first time on the walls of Eden. Knowing how he feels is how he kept himself safe, how he kept _Aziraphale_ safe, how he kept Hell off his trail about the Arrangement.

Here is what he has refused to look at for six thousand years, instead, the very thing that has been the shadowed and blurred movement that he’ll be able to make out if he focuses:

How does Aziraphale feel about Crowley?

He would’ve continued on as he had. It would’ve been enough to have Aziraphale like this, the closest of friends, the person to share Earth and its wine with him. He doesn’t _need_ more, necessarily, because three thousand years ago, he’d lain in Pi-Ramesses, trying to stoke up some new trouble in Egypt, and he’d known that Aziraphale was only a few blocks away - that he’d come here for a miracle, and maybe a little bit for the honeyed candy they’d come up with. Crowley remembers feeling more alone than ever; he remembers grasping the rough cotton that he slept under in an attempt to feel something under his hands, and getting up in the middle of the night to look at constellations he’d helped make an eternity before.

Three thousand years ago, he’d for the angel to acknowledge him as something more than a demon in the handful of times they’d ran into each other, for something more than the anxious-but-polite-and-complicated rejection that Aziraphale had dealt him, most of the time. For the only other person who knew this Earth as he did to acknowledge him as the friends they were, instead of pushing and pushing and pushing. And God hadn’t answered, but maybe she had listened, because in a short thousand years, Aziraphale had invited him to eat oysters out in public, and in another thousand years, they’d tentatively started an Arrangement. And here, another thousand years gone by, and he has Aziraphale all to himself - _their side_ , and Aziraphale’s feet firmly on the ground and, most of the time, in the general proximity of Crowley’s feet.

Aziraphale likes Crowley. Aziraphale may even love Crowley, in that distant way Aziraphale loves all things. In all fairness, Aziraphale may even love Crowley in the way he loves the humans - sinners, down to their core, but forgivable, malleable, capable of change and rather harmless in their mischievous ways in any case. 

Aziraphale loves things he _knows_ , mostly, things that are worn and threaded with comfort, and who’s more comfortable than Crowley? Who can be more familiar than the only other being in the world who’s been here since the day Adam and Eve were put on this Earth? Crowley has wormed himself in Aziraphale’s life, mostly, and Aziraphale had been too polite at the start to do something about it, and then they’d been too friendly.

Crowley has no doubts that Aziraphale cares for him. He’s just not sure what the love stems from, and if it’s something Crowley particularly deserves. If he’s just comfortable and familiar and the only one who’s been around.

But it’s not the sort of thing you can ask, can you? Just go up to an angel and ask, ‘I think you might love me, but I’m not sure it’s the same kind of love that I feel’. Crowley is fine, like this, and he has - he has his herb garden and his plants, now locked in a deadly contest about who can do best with the loser seeing the wrong side of a plant shredder. He has his cooking books that Aziraphale got him, and he has his Bentley, still, and he has Aziraphale, the _wonderful_ , stupid angel who has made him go and knot up his own heart in impossible tangles.

Crowley isn’t an idiot. He’s just a bit of a coward, that’s all.

~*~*~*~

4.

January is over in a blur, which is all fine with Crowley. He doesn’t like January - it’s cold and dreary, and it’s raining most of the time, and all the humans are in too bad of a mood to do anything fun. He enjoys seeing their yearly resolutions crumble up and die - even has a hand in one or two humans giving in and getting that chocolate chip cookie that just looked too good to resist - but that’s about it.

He dines out with Aziraphale. Sometimes, he cooks himself and then Aziraphale comes over to him. Crowley enjoys those moments best, because Aziraphale never fails to appreciate his cooking even if it’s not terribly good, and he always has that radiant smile. The angel always says something disapproving to his plants in front of Crowley, supposedly in support of his parenting techniques, only to turn around and pat their leaves and say something nice. Crowley pretends he doesn’t notice the secretive smile Aziraphale has on his face when he does this.

February comes with the promise of Valentine’s day, which is something Crowley takes great pride in. He came up with the concept a long time ago, and it’s one of his most long-standing accomplishments. One day in the year to confess love to the one you’ve fancied for so long; it leads to a lot of high expectations and disappointment, long nights of pining and giving into small sins that stack up in the end. Of course, there’s a happy ending involved for some couples, but Crowley maintains that they would have found love anyway and therefore Valentine’s day isn’t necessarily a good thing for them.

Nowadays, with all the pressure on romantic love, finding the ‘one’, and last-minute lovers buying roses and chocolates in a hurry, small sins abound during Valentine’s day. Crowley adores the crowds, full of mildly irritated and panicked people wondering if Valentine’s day is really worth the hassle.

“Oh, you serpent,” Aziraphale says. It’s one of the days they’re walking through the familiar London streets, and Crowley watches once again for change. They are renovating a few buildings, ones that Crowley had seen built; there’s some new signs on the streets, and someone has painted their door. Change is immediate, and even after six thousand years, Crowley delights in how humans are so capable of choosing what the world will look like next.

“What?” Crowley asks, lost in thought as he looks through a shop’s window. A young woman is staring at a box full of chocolates. She’s thinking, mildly worried, about what kind of candy her new girlfriend likes best, and is worried about cocking it up. Such small worries, humankind, but the love she feels is real, and it’s something she wants to express, and she’s given into the popular thought that Valentine’s day is the day to do it, instead of just any other day in the week that is just as insignificant.

Aziraphale stares at her, too, and makes a noise to himself. The woman turns away from the box of dark chocolates, instead turning to the cream-filled ones instead, taking it without hesitation. Then he turns to Crowley, as if he hasn’t miracled the woman’s day better without a second thought.

“You _like_ Valentine’s day,” the angel says. “The chaos of it.”

“How could I not?” Crowley says, grinning as he spreads his hands to sluggishly gesture to the entire street. “Everyone’s in a hurry, full of unanswered questions. _He loves me, he loves me not_. So dramatic, humans. As if a bouquet of roses will make a difference, in the large scheme of things. So many small sins, angel, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“So much love, though,” Aziraphale says wistfully, and takes a deep breath. He settles his hands on his chest, almost as if in prayer when he closes his eyes for a second, letting it settle inside him. Then he peers at Crowley again, a tiny hint of a smile playing at his lips. “It’s a shame you can’t feel it, Crowley. They might be grumpy, and they might sin a little, but in the end, they all do it because they love someone.”

“Pah,” Crowley says dismissively, and eyes a small chocolatier at the end of the street. “They’re only doing it today because they have to. The rest of the year, they’ll fight with their partners for never getting them anything. They’re doing it out of obligation, not because of the love. If they did, they wouldn’t need a holiday for it.”

“I still rather think it’s sweet,” Aziraphale says, and then blinks as Crowley takes his arm to whisk him into the chocolatier. “Crowley, what are you - oh.”

Crowley doesn’t have a hard time picking out any of the boxes. The reason it’s a heart-shaped one is only because it contains most of Aziraphale’s favourites; soft, dark chocolate, filled with cherry mousse and cream and all other kinds of things. 

He unceremoniously hands it to the cashier, and the transaction is done within ten seconds as he pays and hands the chocolates to the angel, still staring wide-eyed at him, but now with an arm full of sweets.

“Happy Valentine’s, angel,” Crowley drawls, although his traitorous, unnecessary heart is beating in his throat. “Although it’s not really for Valentine’s. I just know how grumpy you’d get if all of London was having chocolates and you were out.”

“I don’t get _grumpy_ ,” Aziraphale protests. “I just have - good _taste_.”

“Of course you do,” Crowley says amicably, now that he’s not being shot down. He opens the door for Aziraphale. “C’mon. While I’m as fond as Valentine’s day as the next person, standing in a store completely decorated with pink hearts and signs proclaiming that love will conquer all might discorporate me in about two seconds.”

Aziraphale shoots him a glance, but walks out. Crowley follows, feeling a cold gust of wind biting. Soon it’ll warm up again, as far as it ever gets warm in London, but for now, he just turns up his collar and rubs his hands together.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly, still holding the box of chocolates as if it’s something reverent. “That was very kind of you.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Don’t get soft on me, angel,” he says. “It’s just chocolates. Might be able to make some from scrap, next time, yeah? I’ve heard it say it’s not as difficult to make some chocolates, yourself. There was some sort of recipe on one of those books you gave me.”

Aziraphale visibly brightens. “Oh, that would be just jolly,” he says. “Maybe I can come assist you, if you do get around to making them.”

“Of course. Need someone to tell me if I did it right, don’t I?”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. “I wonder how difficult it would be to make those - those colours swirl, do you know what I mean? It always seemed rather professional to me, but then again, they’ve really advanced in cooking methods since I last tried to make anything myself.”

“The Middle Ages?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale lets out a mournful sigh. “Somewhere in the eighteenth century, actually. I almost set fire to myself, and then I had to imagine going up to Gabriel and tell him how I’d been discorporated. The mortification of the very thought kept me from trying it again.”

Crowley laughs, and Aziraphale turns to him fully, stopping in his tracks. “What’d you try to make?” he asks. “Chocolate? Crepes? _Boeuf bourguignon_?”

“Nothing as fancy,” Aziraphale says, and sighs again. “I tried to make scrambled eggs.”

Crowley hiccups out another laugh, shaking his head. “Only you, angel.”

“Well, I don’t think cooking is rather for me, although I’d be open to trying again,” Aziraphale says. “I must say, my dear, having _your_ home-cooked meals will rather spoil me for anything else for the rest of my life. And even if you’re not cooking for me - you’re still buying me my favourite chocolates, apparently. You do so much for me. And I haven’t even got you a gift!”

The sky is open and blue. Crowley stares at it, rather than at Aziraphale, letting his hands fall in his pockets. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Don’t think about it too much, angel.”

Aziraphale’s hand is on his face, then, and he meets his eyes. This time, he’s acutely aware of Aziraphale moving closer, and he stares even as Aziraphale closes his eyes and their lips meet again. His entire body has stilled, but he does manage to kiss back for a second before Aziraphale pulls away, a soft and familiar smile on his face. 

“It’s a rather poor substitute for a real gift, but it’ll have to do,” Aziraphale says pleased, as if kissing him is rather par for the course by now, and as if Crowley wouldn’t rather get one kiss from Aziraphale before he’d pick anything else. “I’ll find something to get you later.”

“It’s not a Valentine’s day gift,” Crowley says, not fully certain how he’s even getting his mouth to work after a few seconds of having been against Aziraphale’s. “It’s just. It’s nothing, Aziraphale, it’s just - it’s what I _do_.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, tilting his head. “Do you fancy lunch, my dear? My treat, this time. Crêpes?”

“I - erm. Yeah,” Crowley says, wondering if demons can go insane. “Sure. Crêpes sound good.”

~*~*~*~

5.

“Do you think,” Aziraphale says, tapping his pencil against his desk, “that angels and demons have always been capable of free will, or if it’s something that happens when you hang around humans? Or that it doesn’t exist at all?”

It’s April, and Crowley has been hanging around the bookshop. He’s curled up on the couch with a book, trying to figure out how to best prepare mimosas, since he’d rather not talk about his first attempt - or remember Aziraphale’s face when he’d tried it. He’s fully visible for anyone who enters the shop, and he’s trying to put off customers with his demeanour. Aziraphale doesn’t want to sell, and Crowley doesn’t want to share his angel. It’s best for both of them, really.

His book is shiny and brightly coloured and full of pictures, so Crowley doesn’t count it as reading as much as it counts as research. He closes it now, though, because he feels a discussion like the one Aziraphale is starting warrants his full attention.

“Free will?” he asks, stretching his back. If he tilts his head, he can see Aziraphale from upside down. His expression is a bit hard to read, this way, so Crowley twists until he’s lying on the sofa on his belly, peering at the angel. “What’re you reading, angel? Spinoza? Nietzsche? Luther?”

“The Bible,” Aziraphale says. 

“Fun stuff,” Crowley mutters. “‘Whoever rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and those who do so will bring judgment on themselves’. Always thought it rather fitting, that. Didn’t She make us rebels rebellious in the first place? Look, angel, it doesn’t matter. Thousands upon thousands of human minds have bowed over the issue, and they are no closer to figuring it out.”

“But I’m an _angel_ ,” Aziraphale says. “I’m _meant_ to know what She meant by it all. I’m meant to know if - if - what it means. That we’re here, you and I. If we _chose_ to be here, or if she orchestrated it that way.”

Crowley sighs, leaning on his own arms. “If you were meant to know, you’d know,” he says seriously. “For what I think - I think we always had free will. It’s just - it’s different for us, y’know? We were _there_ for most of the big questions humanity's asking. We’re not relying on faith, we’re not relying on an apple to tell us what’s right or wrong, we’ve always been told. The humans were allowed to figure it out, to trip over themselves and still be forgiven, and we didn’t get that chance. Strike one and you’re out.”

Aziraphale looks pained. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You don’t like talking about it. Falling, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Crowley mutters. “S’not exactly easy conversation, angel. Anyway, we were supposed to know, right? So free will shouldn’t matter as much, because we all firmly knew what side of the equation we were on. There’s no in between for us, no gray areas. You’re a good angel, or you’re a demon. That’s that. That’s why it didn’t take much, in the old days.”

“And now?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley shrugs. “How should I know? Either all the bad angels are now demons, or Falling turned into a strict talking-to. Maybe She’s just not watching anymore. I don’t think anyone knows.”

“But we do have free will.” Aziraphale is quiet, his pencil abandoned on his desk next to the Bible. He’s not looking at Crowley, but rather outside, where there are people passing by his shop, unaware of being watched by two supernatural entities. Just a normal day, really, an angel and a demon sitting in a bookshop, talking about determinism.

“Yeah,” Crowley says eventually. “I like to think so. Hard to reckon why else we’d be here, eh? It’s not where anyone had expected us to end up. Except maybe Her, but even so - we did choose this. We did.”

Aziraphale sits up straighter, now looking directly at Crowley. “A thousand tiny decisions a day,” he says. “All made by us. It’s delightful, really. And it’s so very human.”

With that, he stands up and crouches next to where Crowley’s sitting. The abandoned book on cocktails is lying on its pages, wrinkling the spine. With a disapproving tut of his lips, Aziraphale sets it upright, miracling up a bookmark between the pages and closing it. Then, turning to Crowley almost absentmindedly, he presses a quick kiss to his lips and stands upright again.

Crowley sits very, very still as he watches Aziraphale return to his Bible. The angel is still smiling, however, in a way that seems very pleased.

“That’s part of free will, too, then?” he asks, and he wants to ask more. _Why_ , is one of the questions that’s on top of the list, and, _why now_ , and, _why me_. He also has some other things to say, not as much a question as a demand - _do it again_ , is one, and, _love me, love me_ , is another. He touches his own lips, hastily retreating his fingers when Aziraphale looks over again.

“Everything is,” Aziraphale says mischievously. “But it is, perhaps, one of my favourite parts of it.”

He’s going to have to ask. Crowley doesn’t know what to do with Aziraphale and the kisses he keeps giving him, but he needs to know what it means. Aziraphale is upsetting a careful balance they’ve maintained for the better part of their lives, and Crowley _wants_ him to upset it, and on a more regular basis, besides. Doubts still crawl in his mind, though, as much a part of him as his red hair is, after six millenia. And he’s always been good at asking questions, although he’s not always particularly liked the answers.

Why do something so complicated on a perfectly nice afternoon, though? There’s ingredients for mimosa in the fridge, and the sun is hitting Crowley’s body perfectly through the shop’s window. Aziraphale is leafing through his Bible now, making the occasional noise, and Crowley wants to kiss him, and touch him, and maybe even - dare he say it - _hold his hand_. But mostly, he just wants to be near him, and have what he hasn’t been allowed to have.

They have eternity, he decides. And he needs to learn how to make a good mimosa before dinner, because he intends to show off. So he doesn’t say anything, but just grabs his book and tries to remember how much prosecco is too much.

~*~*~*~

+1.

The chocolates don’t come out perfectly, but nothing really ever has come perfectly out of Crowley’s cooking hobby. It doesn’t really matter, because Aziraphale has always looked happy just to be trying Crowley’s dishes. And, even if Crowley isn’t necessarily doing all of this for Aziraphale, it’s rewarding to have your food met with a happy expression.

“I don’t think we let them cool for long enough,” Crowley says, staring at the dull-coloured chocolate, shaped like a star. 

“Or for too long,” Aziraphale supplies. “Regardless of the colour of the chocolate, they taste rather good. The filling is exquisite.”

“You’re just saying that because you have to,” Crowley grumbles. He really didn’t think that making some chocolates would be hard. Just melt it down and put something in there, pop it in the freezer for half an hour, and it should be done. He didn’t think the colour would be so off. 

Aziraphale sits down on one of his kitchen chairs and pops another chocolate in his mouth, and Crowley can just see a hint of tongue before he closes it again. The angel makes a surprised sound, his eyes widening. “This one is different!”

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “Made a few different ones. Thought that’d be, well. Give some more variety to the palette, right? That’s the stuff you’re always going on about, anyway, so I thought it’d be a good thing.”

“A very good thing,” Aziraphale affirms, and takes another one. “Once again, I must applaud your skill in the kitchen.”

“Wasn’t really any sort of skill,” Crowley says. “I just melted some chocolate.”

“Really, my dear, you should learn how to take a compliment. Hmm, this one tastes like cherry! Here, you try one, now. Open your mouth, Crowley.”

Crowley responds as if in a reflex, and Aziraphale hand-feeds him a chocolate. His tongue swirls around the sweet chocolate - with coconut filling, this one. It still tastes good, but his mind is busier tracking the smudge of chocolate left on Aziraphale’s thumb, the one that was just pressed against Crowley’s lips. The angel absentmindedly licks it off.

“That’s not so bad,” he gets out, and Aziraphale beams at him again.

“Certainly not, my dear boy,” he says. “Certainly not. Who’d ever thought they would create such - such wonderful things, like chocolate, and books, and nice clothing, and the intricate dances they come up with! The stories, the technology. Sometimes it feels like only yesterday that we watched Adam and Eve leave, and then it feels like an eternity.”

“It’s because they always stay the same in all the ways that matter,” Crowley offers. “Although I can admit that the cars are good. Way better than horses, anyway. Improving on the Almighty, they are.”

“Such a blasphemous demon,” Aziraphale says, but he sounds fond, and he’s reaching for another chocolate, and it’s a good thing there’s another batch in the freezer, because he’s already halfway through this one. “But I do agree. They’re still all so _human_ , no matter what they come up with. Always looking forward, aren’t they? Always changing things, I can barely keep up. It’s a good thing I have you for that.”

Crowley just shrugs and leans against the remaining kitchen chair, looking at Aziraphale. “Is that why you like them?” he asks. “That they’re all so much the same, even after thousands of years? That there’s a main component in them that doesn’t get broken by time? The familiarity of it?”

“No, that’s not why,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. “It would be - well, admittedly, it would have been rather _dull_ , don’t you think, if they all stayed the same? I might move a little slowly for you, Crowley, and I have my all-time favourites, of course. But I do like this world because it’s moving, _flying_ , and I like watching them do it, and I suppose I get a bit too caught up watching to actually participate. Although I like watching you join them, always staying ahead of the game.”

“Is that why you’re wearing a vest that’s over two hundred years old?” Crowley asks, grinning.

Aziraphale looks down at himself, affronted. “I’ll have you know this was the peak of fashion in 1876,” he says, and straightens himself out as if that’ll make it look more modern. “Just because it’s a little old doesn’t mean it’s not any good.”

“I just mean that you like familiarity,” Crowley says. “S’not a bad thing, angel. Just - I wonder, sometimes.”

“About what, my dear? My sense of fashion? You’ve said repeatedly.”

“No,” Crowley says. “About. About - you _know_.”

Aziraphale looks at him oddly, the teasing tone of the conversation lost in two seconds. Crowley did not mean to make a deal out of it, or to bring it up at all, really. He’d just wanted to have Aziraphale try some of the chocolates he’d made. That’s all that tonight was meant to be.

“I really do not,” Aziraphale says slowly.

Crowley lets out an exasperated sigh. “Forget it, angel. Never mind.”

“No,” Aziraphale says. “No. You must tell me.”

The thing about Aziraphale is that he always gets his way. It’s mostly Crowley’s fault, because he’s the one that gives in. At the end of the day, barely anything seems worth the hassle of having Aziraphale be upset, because if he is - well, if Aziraphale is upset, and Crowley doesn’t budge, it results in them not talking for a century. It’s what had happened when he’d asked for holy water, and he’d never tried it again. Aziraphale is too stubborn and righteous, and Crowley is too prideful. It makes resolving an argument difficult, the few times they’ve had one.

The other thing about Aziraphale always getting his way is that he’s very, very bad at dropping something, even if Crowley desperately wishes he would. And now he’s latched onto Crowley like a - like a - fish to water? No, that’s not right. Something with ducks? No, this one had to do with - a hound? A hellhound? Is he thinking of another saying entirely?

Not relevant. Aziraphale is still staring at him, and Crowley turns up his nose and leans against the kitchen counter, putting some more distance between them. Aziraphale has lost all attention for the chocolates, his hands primly folded on Crowley’s black table, his eyes focused fully on Crowley.

“Angel,” he says helplessly.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale returns, creasing his brow. “You can _tell_ me. If I’ve said something -”

“It’s not you,” Crowley says hastily. “Well. In a way, I guess it _is_ you - but not like that, mind. Look, Aziraphale. I just - I know you like familiarity. You like your comforts, and you like knowing where you stand, and you like - you like the gavotte, and old books, and things that you _know_. And I’ve - I guess I’ve wondered where I fit in with all of that. In the whole - the whole ‘in with the old, out with the new’ shtick you’ve got going on.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” Aziraphale says slowly. “You wonder - about how you fit with the things I like? Crowley, this has never been an issue.”

“Well, I didn’t use to spend six out of seven days at your bookshop, did I,” Crowley says tersely. “I’ve never been around this often. And I don’t - you said I went too fast, that’s what you said. But I’m also the only one who’s - who’s still there, from six thousand years ago. I’ve _been_ here, Aziraphale. And I don’t - I’m not always sure. If I’m here because I was there six thousand years ago. If I hadn’t been there, if I’d gone to the Western Gate. Would things have been different?”

“Mebehiah would’ve discorporated you on sight,” Aziraphale says. “Really a rather strict fellow, that one. He wouldn’t have stuck around to have a discussion with you about the nature of good and evil.”

“Or given away his sword, would he?” Crowley grumbles.

“Oh, definitely not,” Aziraphale sighs, and smiles again. “I don’t know if things would’ve been different, Crowley. If I had met you later - well, I don’t know what I would have done, do I? But we’re here now, and I rather like where we happen to be. I don’t like you simply because you’ve been here since day one. I like that we can have discussions about certain events, and I like that there’s someone down here with whom I can share my view of Earth. But if that’s all I’d liked about you, we wouldn’t have stood together in the garden in the first rainstorm on Earth. We wouldn’t have shared oysters in Rome, and I wouldn’t have seen Shakespeare with you. Even if I sometimes was too afraid to admit it, I’ve always liked you. And if there’s anything - any _one_ \- that belongs here on Earth with me, it’s you. There’s nothing that fits better in my life.”

Crowley is silent for a while. “You’re just a paradox walking, aren’t you?” he says eventually. 

“As are you, my dear,” Aziraphale says brightly. “I rather think that it’s why we picked Earth, eventually. What place better to house an angel and a demon who prefer chocolates and wine over celestial harmonies and infernal fires?”

“I just don’t understand you,” Crowley says. “Six thousand years, and - and now you’re. You’re changing all the rules in the book, and you’re not even telling me, and now you’re saying that we fit perfectly together?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Those weren’t my exact words,” he says. “I just caught up with what you were saying, my dear, that’s all. I just thought - you can’t have thought I was being _subtle_ , Crowley, for Heaven’s sake. How many times do I have to kiss you to get the message across?”

Crowley blinks. Stops leaning against the countertop, only to stare a little more at Aziraphale’s exasperated face. The angel’s hands are pressing against the table, now, almost as if he’s ready to get out of his chair at a second’s notice, tense and uncomfortable.

“Erm,” Crowley says, and blinks again. “Yeah. Nice. Great. That’s - erm.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sternly, and then softens visibly, standing up. The chair scrapes on the floor, and the unexpected noise makes both of them wince, but then Aziraphale takes a step towards him. 

“So,” Crowley says a little desperately, and scrapes his throat. “So. You were. Kissing me. To get a point across?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Crowley repeats. “Yes. Of course. The point - the point being. The point being that you - like me. Love me?”

“Love you, yes,” Aziraphale says. As if he isn’t shattering Crowley’s entire world view with just a few words. 

“Right,” Crowley says faintly. “That’s good.”

“Honestly, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs. “No one puts up mistletoe without ulterior motives, you know. But you seemed so jittery after, I thought it best to let the matter rest for a while.”

“Jittery,” Crowley spurts. “I’m not - _jittery_!”

“Of course, dear. So you’re just standing there because you enjoy your kitchen counter so much?”

“I might,” Crowley says defensively.

Aziraphale smiles again, and takes a step closer. And then another one. It’s not that far away, so then he’s only a breath removed from Crowley. He could count the small blond hairs that make up the angel’s eyebrows, and watch the kindly crow’s feet that have always adorned his face. Crowley takes in a breath and doesn’t dare exhale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, and puts a hand on his arm. “If this is too much for you now, I can wait. We’re not in a hurry.”

“I didn’t say that,” Crowley says quickly. The angel is only a bit shorter than him, and his curls look soft as clouds, and the vest that he’d made fun of only minutes earlier seems to be asking Crowley to wrap his arms around it. Even with Aziraphale offering it up like this, something is burning in Crowley’s chest, something that’s still wondering if he’s allowed to be here, to stand this close.

Aziraphale tilts his head, as if in question, and it’s enough. Crowley moves forward, pushing his leg between Aziraphale’s thighs. He tips himself towards Aziraphale, and his hands get on with the program, burying themselves in Aziraphale’s hair, keeping his lips against Crowley. The first times, the kisses were over far too quickly. He’d just stood there, not knowing, but this one, he’ll savour.

Aziraphale lets him, and Crowley can feel his warm hands moving around until one is firmly settled on his hip, the other higher on his back. They act as sources of heat against his body, and Crowley presses him closer, letting one of his hands slip to Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale inhales sharply, and Crowley takes the opportunity to twist them around, pinning Aziraphale to the kitchen counter and kissing him more deeply.

“Don’t tell me to stop,” he says, the first time they break apart, and presses another smaller kiss to Aziraphale’s lips before he finds his words again, “don’t tell me that it’s too much, please, _angel_ -”

Aziraphale kisses him again, and they’re both just holding onto each other until some of the initial heat has dissipated. Crowley doesn’t even notice when the kiss ends, as it slowly shifts to them holding each other, his hands still all over Aziraphale, and Aziraphale’s on him. He isn’t exactly sure where he ends and where Aziraphale begins, and it’s dizzying, and he’s warmer than he’s ever been since he moved to England.

“All in all,” Aziraphale says, “a year isn’t really too much of a wait after six thousand, do you think? We’ve still managed it rather quickly.”

“Quickly,” Crowley says, and huffs out a laugh. “Only you’d define any of this as ‘quickly’, angel.”

“In the grand scheme of things,” Aziraphale argues, but he’s beaming, and it’s still not his sun-beam-Crowley-did-something-undemonish-smile. It’s something else, and Crowley thinks this smile may soon gain its own name. Maybe he’ll call it the sunbeam-I-love-Crowley-smile. Or there’s a hint of something mischievous in there; maybe it’s the sunbeam-tease-the-demon-you-love-smile. Anyway, Crowley can’t help but kiss him again.

“In the grand scheme of things,” Crowley says eventually, “it just looks like we’re both idiots.”

“As per usual,” Aziraphale agrees.

“As per usual,” Crowley sighs.

“How about,” Aziraphale suggests, “we finish those chocolates, and I’ll get us a good bottle of wine. I’ll have to dig around your cellar for a minute, but I rather thought I saw a good red lying around the other day.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “Erm. Sounds nice.”

It’s a bit of a hardship, letting go of Aziraphale that first time. Fortunately, Aziraphale doesn’t take too long to get the wine, and Crowley manages to get out the new batch of chocolates from the fridge. It’s worth it to see Aziraphale’s surprised look, and it’s definitely worth the enthusiastic kiss that the angel gives him. Their noses bump, for a bit, but Crowley can’t mind it as he steers Aziraphale’s face to the right side and deepens their kiss.

And he absolutely doesn’t mind it when Aziraphale has chocolate smeared on his lips, and Crowley is forced to kiss it away for him. It’s only a reason to make chocolates again.

Even though he doesn’t really need an excuse anymore to kiss Aziraphale, does he now?

**Author's Note:**

> it's like the fifth good omens fic I've started writing and also the first I've finished (solo, that is, I guess). anyway, let me know what you think! kudos and comments are how I survive. maybe it'll even amount to _more_ fics. love from L.


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